


Beloved

by ClaraxBarton



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: AmeriHawk, Angst, Established Relationship, Florist Clint, Light Masochism, M/M, Past Steve/Peggy, Past Steve/Peggy/Bucky, canon adjacent, cap!steve - Freeform, emotionally constipated Clint, non-Avenger Clint, past Steve/Bucky - Freeform, slight D/s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:07:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28048968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraxBarton/pseuds/ClaraxBarton
Summary: This was Clint and Steve's two year anniversary and it wasn't a competition.Except how it kind of was.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Steve Rogers
Comments: 18
Kudos: 108
Collections: Marvel Trumps Hate 2019





	Beloved

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sarahcakes613](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahcakes613/gifts).



> As always, so so so very many thanks to Ro for beta reading and all the things.
> 
> For Sarah, for MTH 2019. You are amazing and wonderful and awesome and legitimately all the good things.

It wasn’t a competition.

It wasn’t.

Because Clint was a competitive asshole and he liked to win - and he was damn good at winning.

Except this.

This was a thing he couldn’t win.

This was an opponent he couldn’t defeat.

So it wasn’t a competition.

And Clint wasn’t a replacement. Wasn’t a substitute.

Maybe it had taken the better part of two years for that to really sink in.

Maybe Clint had drunkenly texted Katie about fifty times too many to ask if he should just cut his losses and move to Miami and open a beachfront bar that only sold Hurricanes.

Maybe Clint had watched every single documentary on the  _ Howling Commandos  _ , on  _ Steve Rogers _ , on  _ Bucky Barnes _ . Maybe he had read almost every book, and maybe he had tortured himself by thinking about Steve and Bucky. Steve and Peggy. Steve and Bucky and Peggy.

Clint wasn’t them. Wasn’t either of them. Any of them. He wasn’t a hero, wasn’t a soldier or a spy or- or anything more than a florist who had only met Captain America in the first place because of an alien invasion and Clint’s awesome aim (if people could throw glass vases at cheating spouses, then Clint sure as shit could throw them at  _ aliens _ ).

But… but it wasn’t a competition.

So what that Bucky Barnes had apparently won the hearts of every girl and boy in Brooklyn before the war but had only given his own to Steve Rogers? So what if Bucky Barnes had presented Steve Rogers with a single red rose every payday?

This…

This was a competition.

This was Clint and Steve’s two-year anniversary, and this bouquet… 

Red roses were just a thing, period. They were a thing before Bucky Barnes and after him, and they were Steve’s favorite flower, and- and Bucky Barnes hadn’t given Steve a bouquet with blue delphiniums, the flower for those born in July, for joy and protection. Bucky Barnes hadn’t given Steve a bouquet with red roses and blue delphiniums and white magnolia flowers and-

And it wasn’t a competition.

Because if it was, Clint would have already lost.

And if it was, that would mean Clint wanted Steve to choose, wanted Steve to forget about the love he had carried with him from Bucky and Peggy all of these years, and Clint did  _ not want that _ .

Steve Rogers deserved all the love he could find, would allow himself to have.

And if blue delphiniums were also meant to remember loved ones who had passed?

Well. That was between Clint and Peggy and Bucky.

The  _ point _ was that it had taken Clint way too damn long to finally arrange the bouquet to his liking. But he had, and he’d cleaned up his apartment and dropped Lucky off with Katie - because as much as Steve and Lucky might be actual soul mates, Clint wasn’t going to risk getting cockblocked by his own dog stealing his own boyfriend for snuggles all night. And he’d cooked. 

Okay, he’d gotten one of those fancy meal prep kits. But he had put it all together and hadn’t burned any of it.

So now there was seabass and green beans and carrots and none of it was boiled, and Clint was in the jeans Steve liked best, the ones with the hole over his right knee and left ass cheek, and he was, well, not wearing underwear at all. Or socks. But he was wearing his single white button-up shirt and…

And he was trying.

Not competing.

Just… trying to make this good.

Make it worth it, to Steve, who’d lost so fucking much and who was, for some reason Clint would never be able to wrap his head around, choosing to spend time with Clint ‘I’m a Fucking Disaster’ Barton on a nearly nightly basis. Missions and PR shit excepting.

And now he was waiting.

Because Steve was late.

Which. 

Well, it meant one of two things.

It meant Steve was off saving the world.

Or…

Or it meant that maybe he’d finally decided not to waste time-

The door to Clint’s apartment opened, and he didn’t even care how relieved he looked when Steve stepped inside with a sheepish look on his face.

“Hey,” Steve said.

“You’re here,” Clint breathed, and instantly regretted the ability to speak.

“Of course - I- We did have plans for tonight, right?” Steve reached for his pocket, probably to check his phone and the meticulous calendar he kept on it.

“No, yeah. I mean, yeah, we did.” If Clint’s brain could think of a way to stop sounding like an idiot, he’d be really, really grateful.

Steve raised both eyebrows.

“Everything okay?” he asked cautiously, as if Clint was some kind of situation he needed to defuse.

“Yeah. Yep. It’s-”

Steve’s eyes flicked over Clint’s face and then to a spot over his shoulder and then widened.

The table. He’d seen the table with the flowers and the food and- 

And, oh shit.

Oh  _ shit _ .

Maybe Steve didn’t-

“Happy anniversary,” Steve said, once again cutting into Clint’s trainwreck of a thought process. If that’s what was even going on in Clint’s head.

But just those words, those words and Steve’s slow, warm smile, did a damn good job of bringing everything to a screeching halt and dragging Clint into the present.

“Yeah. It’s… it’s not much, but I wanted to, you know…” Clint had never, not even once, claimed to be even close to a  _ functioning _ adult. But he wasn’t an idiot. He owned a store and spent nearly every single day making floral arrangements for people who did have their shit together and who knew the value of things like relationships and- and he was trying.

Steve’s eyes flickered over the table again, stilled on the bouquet in the green crystal vase - radium glass, because Steve had mentioned something about it once and Clint had maybe spent an unhealthy amount of time and money on eBay tracking some down.

“If this is your version of not much, I’m a little intimidated to ask what your version of  _ much _ looks like,” Steve said.

Which… 

Hell.

What was Clint supposed to say to that?

Apparently, nothing - thank fuck. 

A moment later, Steve was tugging Clint into his arms and tilting his head up just a fraction - that Clint was two inches taller would never, never not boggle the mind - and kissing him. 

It was their standard hello kiss - firm press of lips, drag of teeth and stupid brush of noses before Steve pulled away and Clint could only smile at him.

“Something smells great,” Steve said.

“It- Fuck. It’s probably cold. I can try to reheat it if-”

Steve didn’t let Clint wiggle out of his arms, instead holding him against his very, very firm chest.

“I’m sorry I was late. Press thing at the Tower ran long and-”

“It’s okay. I get it. You’ve got, you know, real things to do and-”

Another kiss. Not the standard hello, but still one Clint was familiar with after long exposure. It was Steve’s  _ this is me shutting you up with my mouth on yours because what the hell Barton stop talking _ kiss. At least, that was how Clint defined it.

Instead of ending with teeth, this one started with them - sharp dig into his lower lip that had Clint opening his mouth and fighting back a whine - because ouch, but also because Clint got off on pain maybe like a lot and Steve was a brilliant tactician and had discovered that maybe the first time they kissed - and Steve more or less did whatever the hell he wanted with his lips and teeth and tongue and Clint was just very, very happily along for the ride.

“This,” Steve all but growled, “is real. And important. You are important. And real.” Each word was punctuated with a bite, a scrape of teeth against Clint’s jaw, his throat. “I love you,” Steve concluded, breath hot against Clint’s ear.

And…

And shit. 

Fuck.

That. 

Steve-

Steve stepped back, held Clint literally at arms length and had the gall to smirk at what was no doubt a completely baffled expression on Clint’s face.

“If dinner is already cold, let’s wait on eating it.”

“Uh- sure. What-”

“Go to the bedroom. I’m going to put this in the fridge, okay?”

Clint licked his lips, because that sounded a lot like…

“What am I doing in the bedroom?”

“Waiting for me. On the bed. Leave the jeans on, but-” Steve hooked a finger between the top button of Clint’s dress shirt and the fabric. “-take this off.”

“Yeah. I can do that.”

Steve nodded, still smirking, blue eyes dark and lips already swollen and red.

“I know you can,” Steve agreed.

It was dumb - kind of sad, really - how those words, Steve’s face, could fill Clint with a sense of pride and-

“I love you,” Steve said again, just as sure as he had sounded before. As if those words weren’t every bit as earth-shattering as- Hell, as an alien invasion. And he was just tossing them out there,  _ again _ .

And again, Clint felt like he’d been punched in the gut. Felt like he was - hell, cheating? Lying? Stealing something? Because-

Steve slapped his ass, hard, and Clint blinked at him.

“Bedroom,” Steve repeated.

Clint nodded, made his feet move and fingers function, and somehow got himself upstairs and onto his bed. The shirt ended up on the floor, but, well, it was mostly out of the way? And Clint had more important things to focus on.

Like  _ what the fuck _ was Steve doing saying  _ I love you _ not once, but twice, and- 

And yes, this was the longest relationship Clint had ever had. The second-longest being his six-month disaster of a marriage when he’d been eighteen and a hell of a lot more optimistic about his ability to bullshit his way through life. And yes, Clint knew Steve cared about him - a hell of a lot, since he’d stuck around this long and through what was pretty much a daily shit show because, well,  _ Clint _ . And yes, Steve looked at him sometimes, a lot of the time, with that sort of soft, unfocused look in his eyes and that slight tilt to the left corner of his mouth, and Clint knew it meant more than Steve wanting to fuck him. He knew that. He knew this was more than that. 

And for Clint - Clint had been all-in on day one, when Steve had pulled back that dumb spandex cowl and blinked at him and told Clint he had good aim and they both stood there breathing heavily and staring down at the alien Clint had brained, glass and freesia all around it. Steve had wiped sweat and blood and alien goo off his face, given Clint that damn War Bonds smile, and told Clint to stay safe because he was going to come back later to ask him out on a date. And then he was off, tackling another alien and leaving Clint staring after him because… because Steve fucking Rogers.

So, it wasn’t as if Clint didn’t reciprocate - he did. A lot. 

But if he said those words…

Hell. 

Bobbi had left him - with damn good cause.

Barney had left him.

Mom and Dad. 

Penny.

Clint saying  _ I love you _ was the same as putting an expiration sticker on someone. 

And Steve-

Steve was standing in front of the bed, looking down at him, absolutely naked, and holding one of the roses from the bouquet.

Clint looked up and up and up, not bothering to be quick about it - this was Steve. This was  _ naked  _ Steve.

“Hey,” he managed when he finally met Steve’s eyes.

“Hey,” Steve replied, voice soft. 

Shit.

That was his  _ Clint is freaking out _ voice. 

Clint tried for a smile, but even he knew it looked like more of a grimace.

Steve sat down on the bed beside him, tossed the rose towards the pillows.

“Talking gonna help or make this worse?” Steve asked. 

Clint gave him a look.

Steve rolled his eyes, but he lifted Clint’s hand from where it rested on his own thigh and laced their fingers together.

“I’m not expecting you to say - it, or anything. You don’t have to.”

Clint had to swallow a few times before he could respond.

“I- It’s not…” he sighed. What the fuck was he even trying to say?

“I didn’t want to freak you out too much, saying it the first time I met you,” Steve kept talking, which, on one hand, thank fuck, because that meant Clint wouldn’t, but on the  _ other _ \- what the hell Steve?

“What?”

Steve gave his hand a squeeze, smirked again.

“You took out a Chitauri with a vase, and you looked - you were so pissed off. Never seen anyone as pretty as you were right then. And you just - you’re brave, and strong, and  _ good _ , Clint. I know that’s not- that’s not what you want to hear. I know, Clint. And I understand.”

Steve tugged, pulled and lifted until Clint was on his lap, denim thighs on either side of Steve’s bare ones and Clint could look down and see the sheer weaponized sincerity that only Steve fucking Rogers was capable of.

" />

Steve curved his right palm to Clint’s left cheek. Held his gaze.

“I know how you feel about me, Clint, and I don’t need you to say any words to know, okay? I don’t need to hear those words - you show me, every day, all the time. I know, okay?”

Clint didn’t remember swallowing a goddamn rock, but he didn’t have any other explanation for the full, raw feeling in his throat right now.

He managed a nod.

“Saying it - me saying it - I’m gonna keep doing it. Unless you tell me to stop. Because I want you to hear it, I wanna say it to you every day, Clint. Wanna see that look in your eyes when I say it.”

Clint didn’t even want to know what look that was. Probably that of a startled deer caught in headlights. But, hey, if that’s what did it for Steve, Clint wasn’t going to fight it. Much.

Steve pulled Clint’s face to his.

“I love you,” he said again just before kissing him.

Clint let himself stop thinking about it - about the whys and the hows and the ways this was dumb and wrong and going to end in disaster immediately - and just kissed back. Held Steve tight and kissed him back and stopped fighting against how good and how right this felt.   
  


Steve’s large, calloused hands gripped his ass and squeezed hard. The fingers of his right hand found their way to the hole on the left side, and Clint felt Steve’s nails scrape against his ass cheek, couldn’t stop the groan at that feeling and didn’t even bother pretending he wasn’t dry humping Steve’s naked dick.

He wasn’t sure how it was possible, but somehow, Steve was still fucking smirking while they kissed, while his mouth was open and his tongue was shoved deep into Clint’s mouth, the asshole was smirking.

Clint shifted his weight, pushed until Steve was flat on his back and Clint braced above him, but that didn’t at all erase the smirk.

It actually-

Steve rolled them, put Clint on his back and shoved Clint’s legs wide with his own and held Clint there with absolutely no effort.

He was, at least, breathing hard. Just as hard as Clint. So that was something.

Steve pulled back from the kiss and stared down at him, face and chest flushed, lips wet and dark and eyes nearly black.

“I love you,” he said again.

Before Clint could even try to squirm - could do much more than think about it - Steve’s face was against his chest, mouth open, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses over his pecs and down his abdomen, pausing and backtracking with his teeth every once in a while. Torturing Clint, is what he was doing. Torturing Clint and holding his gaze and smirking the entire damn time.

Steve stopped just as he reached the waist of Clint’s jeans.

Stopped and rested his chin on Clint’s groin, grinning at Clint’s  _ oof _ when Steve’s sharp chin ground down on Clint’s very hard dick.

“I love you,” Steve said.

“You’re an asshole,” Clint responded, and immediately wanted to kick himself. Because who the fuck  _ said _ that when-

Steve laughed, absolutely delighted. He tilted his head down, mouthed over Clint’s dick and even tried to bite at it through the denim.

Which- 

Clint couldn’t feel much through the jeans, but that wasn’t bad. Not bad at all.

He rolled his hips, hoping for more.

Instead, what he got was Steve sitting up and rearranging Clint again - manhandling him, because sure, Clint was two inches taller and in decent shape because doing a few hundred crunches at two in the morning when he couldn’t sleep was kind of a thing for him, but that wasn’t anything compared to supersoldier serum. And Steve had made it real obvious, real early on, that he enjoyed treating Clint like he weighed nothing. And Clint had made his feelings pretty clear on the subject - Steve tossing him over his shoulder and carrying him into Steve’s shower after their first really messy, really satisfying hook-up had Clint laughing  _ fuck yes _ and Steve smacking his ass and calling him sweetheart. So. That was fine.

This was fine.

Except for the part where Clint wanted Steve to pay more attention to his dick.

Clint was put on his belly, and Steve shoved one hand under him, tormenting Clint - and his dick - with a brief moment of hope.

But Steve just thumbed open Clint’s jeans, not bothering with the zipper, and yanked them down and off.

Leaving Clint ass-up, naked, and just like every other time he found himself in this position, hoping that Steve Rogers wasn’t too disappointed by what he saw.

“I love you,” Steve said again, mouth against the small of Clint’s back, and Clint shivered.

Steve bit him, teeth sinking into Clint’s right ass cheek hard enough to make him cry out. Steve licked at him, kissed the spot, and then worked his way up Clint’s back.

And then he picked up the rose, laying just a few inches from Clint’s face.

Which-

He hadn’t really thought about it, before now. 

But.

What the hell was Steve going to do with that rose?

The sound of crinkling and tearing was the first hint.

The whisper-light touch of rose petals dropping onto his back was the second.

Clint buried his face in a pillow, hoping Steve couldn’t see that he was blushing, because  _ what the hell _ ?

Steve was sitting there, straddling Clint’s thighs, decorating him with rose petals. 

They’d done a lot of weird shit in bed. 

All of those documentaries and books and articles that had suggested that Steve Rogers was a good, old-fashioned innocent guy had been… so, so, so wrong. Their first date had been coffee, at a diner two blocks from Clint’s store after Steve came back the day after the alien invasion and asked him out as promised. Three cups of coffee and four shared pastries later, Steve jerked Clint off in the bathroom and asked Clint out for a second date while licking Clint’s cum from his fingers. 

Sure, it had taken a few weeks to get to the more, well, involved activities in bed - anything that required accessories - but Steve Rogers was anything but repressed or innocent, and Clint was so very, very grateful.

But this, rose petals?

This might be approaching the line where Clint needed to safeword out. Because this was…

“I love you,” Steve said again.

Clint groaned into the pillow.

How,  _ how _ could Steve keep saying it? And  _ why _ ?

Something sharp and thin traced a line over his ass, bisecting the earlier bite from Steve.

Clint frowned.

What-

“You left the thorns on,” Steve said.

“You like the thorns,” Clint breathed out, just barely.

“I do,” Steve agreed.

And then he hit Clint with the thorny stem. Just a light flick, really, but- 

But thorns. And super soldier strength.

And-

“I love you,” Steve said.

And another hit.

Clint sucked in a breath. 

The thorns were surprisingly sharp. The force Steve managed with the rose stem was kind of mind-boggling.

It was perfect.

  
  



End file.
